Walter Scott - The Complete Poems of Sir Walter Scott

Stout Willimondswick,

and hardriding dick,

and hughie of hawdon, and will o’ the wall,

have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh,

and taken his life at the deadman’s-shaw.”

Scantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook

The harper’s barbarous lay;

Yet much he praised the pains he took,

And well those pains did pay:

For lady’s suit and minstrel’s strain,

By knight should ne’er be heard in vain.

XIV

“Now, good Lord Marmion,” Heron says,

“Of your fair courtesy,

I pray you bide some little space

In this poor tower with me.

Here may you keep your arms from rust,

May breathe your warhorse well;

Seldom hath passed a week but just

Or feat of arms befell:

The Scots can rein a mettled steed,

And love to couch a spear;

St. George! a stirring life they lead,

That have such neighbours near.

Then stay with us a little space,

Our Northern wars to learn;

I pray you for your lady’s grace!”

Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

XV

The captain marked his altered look,

And gave a squire the sign;

A mighty wassail-bowl he took,

And crowned it high with wine.

“Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion:

But first I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine,

That used to serve thy cup of wine,

Whose beauty was so rare?

When last in Raby towers we met,

The boy I closely eyed,

And often marked his cheeks were wet,

With tears he fain would hide:

His was no rugged horseboy’s hand,

To burnish shield or sharpen brand,

Or saddle battle-steed;

But meeter seemed for lady fair,

To fan her cheek or curl her hair,

Or through embroidery, rich and rare,

The slender silk to lead:

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,

His bosom—when he sighed -

The russet doublet’s rugged fold

Could scarce repel its pride!

Say, hast thou given that lovely youth

To serve in lady’s bower?

Or was the gentle page, in sooth,

A gentle paramour?”

XVI

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest;

He rolled his kindling eye,

With pain his rising wrath suppressed,

Yet made a calm reply:

“That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,

He might not brook the Northern air.

More of his fate if thou wouldst learn,

I left him sick in Lindisfarne:

Enough of him. But, Heron, say,

Why does thy lovely lady gay

Disdain to grace the hall to-day?

Or has that dame, so fair and sage,

Gone on some pious pilgrimage?”

He spoke in covert scorn, for fame

Whispered light tales of Heron’s dame.

XVII

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt,

Careless the knight replied,

“No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt

Delights in cage to bide;

Norham is grim and grated close,

Hemmed in by battlement and fosse,

And many a darksome tower;

And better loves my lady bright

To sit in liberty and light,

In fair Queen Margaret’s bower.

We hold our greyhound in our hand,

Our falcon on our glove;

But where shall we find leash or band

For dame that loves to rove?

Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.”

XVIII

“Nay, if with royal James’s bride

The lovely Lady Heron bide,

Behold me here a messenger,

Your tender greetings prompt to bear;

For to the Scottish court addressed,

I journey at our King’s behest,

And pray you, of your grace, provide

For me and mine, a trusty guide.

I have not ridden in Scotland since

James backed the cause of that mock-prince,

Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,

Who on the gibbet paid the cheat.

Then did I march with Surrey’s power,

What time we razed old Ayton Tower.”

XIX

“For suchlike need, my lord, I trow,

Norham can find you guides enow;

For here be some have pricked as far,

On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar;

Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,

And driven the beeves of Lauderdale;

Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,

And given them light to set their hoods.”

XX

“Now, in good sooth,” Lord Marmion cried,

“Were I in warlike wise to ride,

A better guard I would not lack

Than your stout forayers at my back;

But as in form of peace I go,

A friendly messenger, to know

Why through all Scotland, near and far,

Their King is mustering troops for war.

The sight of plundering Border spears

Might justify suspicious fears,

And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,

Break out in some unseemly broil:

A herald were my fitting guide;

Or friar, sworn in peace to bide

Or pardoner, or travelling priest,

Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.”

XXI

The captain mused a little space,

And passed his hand across his face.

“Fain would I find the guide you want,

But ill may pursuivant,

The only men that safe can ride

Mine errands on the Scottish side:

And though a bishop built this fort,

Few holy brethren here resort;

Even our good chaplain, as I ween,

Since our last siege we have not seen:

The mass he might not sing or say,

Upon one stinted meal a day;

So safe he sat in Durham aisle,

And prayed for our success the while.

Our Norham vicar, woe betide,

Is all too well in case to ride;

The priest of Shoreswood—he could rein

The wildest warhorse in your train;

But then, no spearman in the hall

Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl.

Friar John of Tillmouth were the man:

A blithesome brother at the can,

A welcome guest in hall and bower,

He knows each castle, town, and tower,

In which the wine and ale is good,

‘Twixt Newcastle and Holyrood.

But that good man, as ill befalls,

Hath seldom left our castle walls,

Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede,

In evil hour, he crossed the Tweed,

To teach Dame Alison her creed.

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife;

And John, an enemy to strife,

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.

The jealous churl hath deeply swore

That if again he venture o’er,

He shall shrive penitent no more.

Little he loves such risks, I know;

Yet in your guard, perchance, will go.”

XXII

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,

Carved to his uncle and that lord,

And reverently took up the word.

“Kind uncle, woe were we each one,

If harm should hap to brother John.

He is a man of mirthful speech,

Can many a game and gambol teach;

Full well at tables can he play,

And sweep at bowls the stake away.

None can a lustier carol bawl;

The needfullest among us all,

When time hangs heavy in the hall,

And snow comes thick at Christmastide,

And we can neither hunt, nor ride

A foray on the Scottish side.

The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude,

May end in worse than loss of hood.

Let Friar John, in safety, still

In chimney-corner snore his fill,

Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill:

Last night to Norham there came one,

Will better guide Lord Marmion.”

“Nephew,” quoth Heron, “by my fay,

Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say.”

XXIII

“Here is a holy Palmer come

From Salem first, and last from Rome:

One that hath kissed the blessed tomb,